The Golden Master
The dream was a house made of water, where the walls breathed in and out like the sides of a sleeping ox, and in the center of the living room stood a single, unblemished oak tree, its roots drinking deep from the floorboards, its branches pressing against the ceiling. Elias Thorne woke with the taste of wet bark in his mouth, a gritty, earthy flavor that lingered long after he had spat into...
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